Crayon Box
by Neko-chan -Silvered Tongue
Summary: A cardboard box full of pretty colors---which colors could be used to best express oneself? And what to draw? ... [Introspective Aya Moment]


Crayon Box

By: Neko-chan

  
  


A/N: ... ^_^;;

DISCLAIMER: Neko-chan doesn't own, so please don't sue.

  
  


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Omi stared down at the white sheet of paper, tilting his head this way and that--hoping that maybe, just maybe, something would come to him. He frowned thoughtfully and bit his lower lip. Nothing. Just... nothing. The piece of paper stared back, its surface clean and unadorned. If Omi had been even a little bit paranoid, he would have said that the paper was mocking him.

But it wasn't, of course. ...right?

His frown deepened and he stared at the box of crayons sitting in front of him, seemingly innocent. But appearances can be deceiving... right? The box of 100-plus crayons just sat there, doing nothing and giving him nothing. They were just... there.

"I give up," he finally sighed and stood up, making his way deeper into the flower shop. He had been given the artwork as part of a homework assignment. But no matter how hard he tried, nothing came to him. He could think of nothing to draw with those cheerfully colorful sticks of wax. His mind was a blank and it frustrated him very much so.

"Why couldn't sensei just have given us an assignment that dealt with _computers_? _That_ I can do," the young boy grumbled to himself as he disappeared into the back storage room, intent on arranging several flower bouquets while his mind grappled with the almost impossible task of coming up with _something he had to draw._ 

Omi heaved another sigh and closed the door behind himself.

~ ~ ~

A little while later, Aya came back to the shop. He had been gone for several hours, but no one questioned where he had went. No one ever did. The interrogation would have become too personal; and though the men were closer than most friends--facing life and death countless numbers of times tended to do that--personal boundaries were still realized and respected.

Where Aya went for hours on end was a personal topic. And so no one ever brought it up. After all, every single person deserves his or her privacy. Some secrets and some bits and pieces of information are too raw and too close to a person's heart to talk about.

He was about to walk by the small kitchen table when he noticed the box of crayons... and the sheet of paper. True, Aya rarely (if ever) truly indulged himself, but today was one of those days that he had to indulge himself to make everything stop being so razor sharp. Each time he left, he had to face a horror that he hated with all his heart and soul--and that horror was slowly eating away on him, on all levels of being.

The slender red-haired man sat down with a cat-like grace only he could possess. He stared down at the blank piece of paper and then looked up at the crayon box, finally selecting only three color sticks. Black, white, and red.

The black came first, tracing solid, black lines up and down the paper, until the picture seemed more like an intricate dance than a piece of art. Black lines, solid lines, lines to girder the picture together and make it whole. Without the black, the picture was worthless.

Next came the red, light and delicate, a whisper among the black of night. Everything about the red was fragile--a fragility that hid a depth of character and emotion that few would ever fully realize. Symbolism at its best.

Last came the white crayon. A smudge here and a smudge there, blending colors until everything became a mixture of just one complete color. It was all of the colors that he used, and yet none at all. Independent, with no claim to others; nor could others claim _it_.

Aya leaned back and stared at the picture he had created. He smiled slightly--but it was a smile that never reached his eyes. And he knew it. Still smiling, he reached forward and put the crayons back into their original places. That finished, he stood up and left, heading for his room. He didn't want to see anyone. No, not right now.

  
  


Left alone on the kitchen table, with no one to admire it and with no one to contemplate it, lay a single white piece of paper. Drawn on the paper was a cross, done in solid and fortifying black lines. The shading on it was red, hinting at the shadows beyond. It was rose red; blood red. Smudges of white were paced here and there, bringing all of the colors together and making the picture whole.

A black and white cross, hinting of crimson shadows.

~Kiss the moment.~

  
  


**Owari**


End file.
